


Blood Run

by albion



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Blood and Violence, Competence Kink, Enemies to Friends, Knifeplay, Legal and Medical Issues, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Post-Recall, Rekindling Old Flames, Sexual Tension, Supernatural Elements, Vendettas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:17:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albion/pseuds/albion
Summary: McCree curses. If he cannot sense a presence on the wind, that leaves only one possibility.He’s not the only demon at Watchpoint: Gibraltar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So about that Demon!Hanzo skin in the new Halloween update...  
> This idea has been running around my head for a long time, but the new event really kicked my ass into gear to get this finished. And boy, has it been a labour of love.
> 
> If you're wondering about Bad Sun, it's not abandoned! This is just another idea I wanted to explore.
> 
> Many thanks to Kali for beta-ing this piece, and everyone else who read snippets and offered concrit!!

There’s a myth, down in Deadlock Gorge.

Down in the valley, they say, along the old Route 66, there’s a spectre of a man with a sweet sugar smile like the devil, who moves as sharp as a whip crack and wields a smoking six-shot. He hops between the layers of pale pink rock in the early morning and rides on a tumultuous steed of dark clouds as the night falls, dancing and riding until the dawn comes again to bring justice down upon the unrighteous. He wears a cloak of crimson red, according to the tales, and a wide brimmed hat. One arm is barely there, flesh burned away to reveal nothing but bare ivory bone, gleaming white in the midday sun. He has one dead eye, they say, but don’t let that fool you. His aim is true.

They always find six bodies, when they find the bodies at all. Six bodies, with six bullet holes through the frontal lobe of their skulls. Kill shots, right between the eyes.

No bullets are ever left behind, which only further fuels the myth.

The bodies he leaves are all of a similar kind—all criminals of a certain type: the ones who have turned from the side of morality. Kidnappers, rapists, murderers.

The law enforcement in the area don’t quite know what to think. The bodies are real, the criminals are real. The gunshot wounds are real. The criminals are now very much dead.

A vigilante, they give as their official announcement. A vigilante masquerading as some sort of justice-bringer, a vengeful ghost, a man with no name.

It doesn’t matter to them. The ghost is a man, not a ghost, they think. Not a myth, and especially not a demon.

Jesse McCree, however, would disagree.

The red-eyed demon rides the hypertrain to Houston, stopping a Talon incursion along the way, neatly avoiding the police who come to arrest him at his stop. At a small bar in the city he orders a bourbon that was denied him earlier that day, and hops on a bus that’ll take him further downtown. He conceals the arm under his serape, and hides the deep scarlet flash of his eyes under the brim of his hat.

When the recall comes, he answers. He boards a coach-class flight to Gibraltar, because no matter what they say, no steed of dark clouds has enough stamina to get itself over the Atlantic in one go. He lands in North Front, then glides effortlessly over the jagged rock toward the watchpoint. It’s masquerading as an abandoned fortress, but McCree knows better. He can sense the people inside; the smell and heat of their blood like a signal flare to him.

What’s more, several of the scents are _familiar_. He smiles to himself. Reinhardt, solid and firm, smells like freshly cut grass and armour polish as always. Torbjörn, the bitterness of black coffee and fire. Lena, the gust of sharp wind on a blustery English day.

The coastal breeze picks up and brings more scents as he’s rounding a corner of the cliffside, where a small path winds around the rocks above a sheer drop into the strait. He stops, fingers twitching towards where Peacekeeper hangs on his belt. These scents are not familiar. Neither are they friendly.

The smell of carrion curls in his nostrils, the sickly sweet aroma of rotting flesh burning under the Spanish sun. Six agents.

Talon.

He grins, slips his revolver from the holster on his belt, and raises the brim of his hat. They’re at his ten o’clock. A handful of them, creeping silently around the rocks. A scouting party, looks like. Their boots have mufflers on their soles, their breaths are light and even and steady. Professionals.

Unfortunately for them, they’re no match for him no matter how well they were trained.

He draws a deep breath, and calls the power held inside his blood and bones. It flows over him like the sharp lick of a flame, aching the joints of his left arm and in his eye where old wounds never fully healed. An eagle’s screech echoes overhead; the deep low peal of the church bells thrum, sound echoing in the ground and throughout the rocks, sending jagged splinters crashing into the ocean below. From his ankles to his hips Jesse feels the vibrations running through his feet and up his thighs. He shivers with the force of it, vision awash in burnt umber, and the bitter tang of metal seeps onto his tongue. Jesse strolls amiably around the corner of the cliff, steps over the tumbleweed near his feet, and takes aim. There they are, scrambling at the sudden noise and the confusion, heads turning jerkily for the source. They’re looking wildly, but they can’t pinpoint precisely where he is. Above their heads, he sees the dwindling essence of their lives in the form of six crimson skulls, red washing down over their shoulders and towards their feet. In a couple of seconds, they’ll be dead, unaware of who—or what, had killed them.

Jesse McCree raises his gun.

 _Ping!_ A sudden burst of blue ricochets around the cliff-side, metal scattering in a wild, deadly arc. The Talon infiltrators fall.

The demon stops dead in his tracks, stumbles back in surprise.

That wasn’t _his_ shot.

He spins his head around quickly, searching for what had killed them. Perhaps neo-Overwatch, aware of the Talon attack, had already mounted a counter strike? But, no. He would have sensed them approaching. Humans can’t sneak up on him. It’s not entirely a matter of skill. They’re physically _unable_ to.

There’s no one in his vicinity. No movement in his peripheral. He’s starting to have a cold, uneasy feeling about this.

Jesse dives for cover back around the narrow trail just as the arrow comes hurtling through the air, whistling through the space his head had been just seconds before. An arrow to the skull wouldn’t have killed him, but it would have _hurt_ like hell.

McCree curses. If he cannot sense a presence on the wind, that leaves only one possibility.

He’s not the only demon at Watchpoint: Gibraltar.

He leaves the cliffs, clambers up into one of the walkways at the watchpoint, wincing at the loudness of his own boots against the metal of the emergency handholds. He has no idea where the archer is, but he knows better than to be complacent. Crouching into one dusty, abandoned room, he pauses for a moment, trying in vain to discern from where the demon is shooting from. He pokes his head outside into the air, tries to take aim.

An arrow comes skimming right next to his head, shaving a few errant strands of thick brown hair before piercing the wall behind him with a sharp thud. Jesse throws himself back behind cover, claps one hand against his head and snarls. Luckily, now he knows the archer is somewhere on his right, and if he can get to the next tower he’ll have a broader view and better shot at retaliating. The bridge is uncovered, however. He’ll have to be quick.

Diving forward into a less than graceful roll, he spans the bridge, avoiding a ricochet of metal arrowheads and splinters. They whistle along the wind next to his ears, bouncing off the solid ground with metallic clangs and pings, dangerously close to shredding the skin on his face and his one flesh arm. Jesse scrambles to his feet just outside the door, holds up his left to protect his good eye, catches the next arrow deftly between the phalanges before it can make its way into the brim of his Stetson. He quickly ducks inside the shelter of the comm tower, positioning himself behind the door.

McCree stares down at it. Long shaft, fletching of some lightweight material he can’t immediately place, but certainly not feather. Arrowhead made of some kind of metal alloy. He twirls it quickly between his bony fingers and slips it into his belt to study later. He grimaces.

Then he hears it. The sound of voices he hasn’t heard in years. Jesse takes a cautious peek around the doorway.

“Hanzo! Hanzo, what is it? What’s the commotion?”

It’s Angela, sweeping into view in her Valkyrie swift-response suit, wings spread and golden, just the way Jesse remembers.

He smiles to himself. Angela stops in the clearing, takes one look at the bodies, and shakes her head. _Flatlined_ , he sees her mouth. Shortly afterwards, he hears the distinctive loud clattering of Reinhardt in his crusader armour, and Torbjörn running along after him, hammer ready.

“What is it?” Reinhardt booms. “Talon again? Did we miss the fight?”

“You did,” comes a cool, low voice that sends a shiver up McCree’s spine. The figure steps out into view from where they have concealed themselves behind a pile of empty crates. If the stamp on the sides is to be believed, they once contained bitter Seville oranges. This is the one whose name Angela had called. Hanzo.

From his vantage point, McCree cannot see him in full detail. But he _knows_. There’s a gap in his senses where this man would be, a distinctive dry emptiness in his throat.

Another demon. Just like him.

McCree drops down from the tower walkway onto the ground, knees braced to absorb the impact of the jump. His boots land loudly on the sun-warmed concrete, and the congregation of neo-Overwatch turns at the sound. Torbjörn drops his hammer in surprise, its clattering echoing from the ground Angela gasps audibly, clasping one hand to her mouth.

The demon immediately nocks an arrow to his bow, but Angela’s arm on his wrist stops him. She pushes his wrist away and down, and the bow string goes slack. McCree doesn’t miss the way he flinches at her touch, mouth turned sourly downward.

“It’s alright,” she says softly. “He’s with Overwatch.”

“Hey there,” Jesse McCree drawls, hooking his thumbs casually on either side of his belt buckle. “How y’all doing?”

For a moment, there is silence. Then, as if in response, another figure moves out into the sunlight. Jesse’s breath hitches. His legs weaken slightly, involuntarily.

“Hello Jesse,” says Genji Shimada.

Despite Jesse’s pleas that nobody needs to a make a big fuss, dinner ends up being a somewhat festive affair, despite Overwatch’s lack of money. Funding is unsurprisingly difficult to acquire, given Overwatch’s now illegal status.

While Athena analyzes the details of the Talon incursion, Jesse’s arrival is made known around the base. He hadn’t told anyone he was coming, figured it might be a welcome surprise, but he’s genuinely astonished at the _warmth_ of the reception he receives. Turns out he is the last to arrive from the old gang, and they’ve picked up a whole host of new faces too. A Brazilian DJ, who McCree swears he’s heard of before, gives him one of the brightest smiles Jesse’s seen for a long time. A Korean soldier and gaming enthusiast smacks her bubble gum when he offers his hand to shake. She goes to meet his hand halfway, before flipping it up and turning it into a finger gun, taking a mock shot between his eyes. _Bang._ She’d got him. McCree feigns a dramatic death, flopping backward bonelessly into the arms of one very surprised Mei.

There is also an omnic, who he’s told is a great friend and mentor to Genji, the one who had been tutoring him ever since he’d left Overwatch all those years ago.

(The day Genji left is branded in Jesse’s memory, a sharp pain that dulled down to a lingering throb over the years. No matter how hard Jesse tries to forget, the words run through his head like a twisted mantra.)

And there’s also the demon. Hanzo. The only one he doesn’t already know. Who, in an ironic and cruel twist of fate, is none other than Genji’s _brother_. Figures.

Jesse doesn’t know what to think. He answers the recall, despite his own better judgment, arrives at Gibraltar, and the first thing that greets him is an arrow aimed at his skull. If it had been anyone else, he’d be comforted by the fact that at least their security measures were up to scratch. Protocol never really changes. Morrison can rest easy in his grave.

But it _wasn’t_ just anybody who shot at him.

For years, he’d cursed and thought about the faceless horror that had hurt Genji, wondering what could possess someone to turn on their own kin in such a savage manner. And now he’s here, in close proximity to both Genji and the brother who had killed him.

Jesse’d nearly done it, right there under the Spanish sun. He’d nearly gone straight for Hanzo’s throat, and his own self-control barely stopped him in time.

If Genji came to him and asked him to kill, Jesse knows he would do it. He wouldn’t even need his gun. But rationally, he knows he can’t. It would put all of them at risk. Hanzo, Jesse, and Genji too.

He scowls. From what Winston tells him, Hanzo’s not even here on behalf of Overwatch’s struggle. He’s not fighting the good fight with them, not officially, but he’s offering them his aid. For a time. Some kind of mercenary.

Where did neo-Overwatch get that kind of money?

It’s all highly suspicious. Jesse’s done his time in Blackwatch. He knows when something’s not right.

McCree expects Hanzo to corner him at some point. What he’s _not_ expecting is being cornered on the very first evening when his guard is down. It’s as he’s leaving the showers, having scrubbed off the day’s sweat and grime to be clean for the evening meal. Just as he turns the corner, Hanzo slams one hand against the wall, nearly startling Jesse out of his skin with the sudden noise and movement. He claps one hand to his chest, nearly drops his dirty laundry onto the floor.

Jesse _hates_ how demons cannot sense each other’s presence. There’s a complete absence in the air where he should be, a blank, Hanzo shaped entry in his book.

The shorter demon frowns up at him. His eyes are the colour of dark bronze, rimmed in red liner, and there are streaks of silver at his temples; fine lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Jesse had been hoping not to run into either of the Shimada brothers for the rest of the night, preferably, but he’d especially not wanted to run into _him_.

Sadly, life is never quite so benevolent.

Under that piercing stare, McCree knows Hanzo has already figured out what he is. It would have been impossible for him not to have. Their kind can see right through each other’s glamours. All of Jesse’s scars are laid bare under his disparaging gaze.

Jesse quashes down the instinctual envy that churns bitter in his gut as he returns the stare, eyeing over Hanzo as well. He’s every inch the ideal of what one of their kind should be. His eyes are deep in colour, body (of what Jesse can see, at least) unblemished and unscarred. Dark red facial markings curve underneath his eyes and above his brows; the markings of a great house. His left arm, as Jesse had spotted earlier, is intricately covered in a dark tattoo that winds and slithers down from bicep to wrist. The Shimada tattoo.

Hanzo is frowning down at Jesse’s skeletal arm. It’s clear what _he_ thinks. Jesse decides to frown back.

“Need something, friend?” he asks. “It’s not polite to go sneaking up on people outside of the showers, you know. People might get all sorts of _ideas_. Especially when we ain’t even been properly introduced yet.”

When he gets no response, he sticks out his arm for Hanzo to shake, a mocking gesture. “Jesse McCree, Overwatch agent.”

Hanzo ignores the gesture completely. “Do not play games with me,” he hisses. “You know what I am.”

Jesse shifts his pile of toiletries and dirty laundry in his arms. “Yeah, I do.”

“I was protecting this base. I knew something was out there. I knew what you were.”

“Protecting? That’s a nice word for it. Why are you here?”

Hanzo blinks at Jesse’s bluntness, the unexpected question. “That is none of your business,” he snaps. “I don’t answer to the likes of you.”

Jesse grins. “Touchy, ain’t we?”

Hanzo snarls in response. “You’re the demon of Deadlock Gorge. The one my brother told me about. The one who’s... gone _soft_.”

He spits out the last word acidically, gestures towards McCree’s left arm. “That is disgusting, the way you flaunt that thing around.”

McCree’s fully aware of the impression he gives off to most of their kind. Demons value strength. To those who follow the traditions and the rituals, scars are a sign of weakness, and weakness is the ultimate dishonour.

For most of Jesse’s entire life, none of that has bothered him. He’s never been one who follows the rules.

But to someone like Hanzo, his very presence is probably an insult.

 _Good_ , Jesse thinks to himself. _Let him be insulted._ He pushes his anger down, and flashes Hanzo an insincere smile instead.

“At least I ain’t a fratricide,” he says airily, laying the cards on the table.

Hanzo tenses up immediately. _Bingo_. Just what McCree had expected.

“Do not provoke me,” Hanzo says coldly. He doesn’t move his arm from where it’s bracketed against the wall.

McCree shrugs. “Fine words and all darlin’, but it’s not like you can actually do anything about it.”

He knows he’s right. He’d mulled it over whilst showering. Hanzo could threaten him all he wanted, but there’s definitely some kind of reason for him being here, despite his thinly veiled disgust of the entire affair. Jesse’s willing to bet his boots _and_ his hat it has something to do with Genji. And if he’s here against his own better judgment, there’s very little he can actually do in the way of punishing McCree for real or imagined slights. The problem with traditionalists, they only tended to solve their issues in one way. Violence. Diplomacy wasn’t their finest skill. If he and Jesse got into a fight, there’d be a lot of questions. Probably more than even Hanzo could explain away. No matter how much McCree’s presence might offend him, he can’t actually do anything that would get him dismissed from the base.

Evidently Hanzo realizes it too, given he’s still standing there instead of launching into McCree fangs first and wrestling him into submission.

“I do not like you being here,” Hanzo spits, making his words as venomous as he can to compensate.

“Well, that’s just too bad ain’t it,” Jesse grins. “Because I’m here now, and I’m here to stay.”

Hanzo hisses, allowing Jesse a full view of his fanged canines, undisguised and wickedly sharp.

“Be careful,” he says coldly. “I might not have a choice in working with you, given the small size of this team, but I warn you not to drag me down to _your level_. If you do so, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“The same to you, _friend_ ,” Jesse replies, allowing himself the same gesture, teeth white and gleaming. “I got fangs, same as you, and I ain’t afraid to use ‘em.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“So it does. Which reminds me, you coming to dinner?” He slings his dirty clothes under one arm, leans against the wall and crosses one leg over the other casually.

Hanzo blinks, as if the question completely eludes him in meaning.

“Dinner?” McCree tries again, makes an exaggerated chewing motion. “You know, people sit down, put food and drink in their mouths, receive nourishment?”

Hanzo draws back, disgusted. “ _No_ ,” he hisses, horrified at the idea. “Why would I?”

Jesse sighs. He should have seen this coming. Either Hanzo’s not accustomed to being around humans, or he doesn’t seem to give a damn if they find out what he is. McCree’s willing to bet it’s a mixture of both.

“And you haven’t given a single thought as to what the rest of them have been thinking all this time, how they never seen you eat a morsel? Seriously, are you just that unaccustomed to hangin’ around humans, or what?”

Hanzo scowls. “I do not care what they think. And though it is no business of yours, they merely believe that I take my meals privately within my own rooms. My cover here is sufficient, and none of your concern, weakling.”

McCree rolls his eyes. That age old insult. Hanzo really hasn’t been around liberals a lot. “Yeah, keep thinkin’ that. Won’t be seein’ you the rest of the night then. Sweet dreams, Legolas.”

He brushes right past the other demon and makes his way to dinner. Figures Hanzo would be a traditionalist. Figures.

Jesse brightens up when he approaches the mess hall and sees the congregation preparing food. A strange pang hits him in the chest. He remembers the forgotten feeling, of being with family. He hasn’t felt that for a long time.

Jesse sits either side of Reinhardt and Lena during dinner, devouring his way through a pork chop half the size of his head. It’s good, he has to admit, even if he doesn’t strictly require human food to function. It’s nice to indulge in these sorts of frivolities.

Genji is there. Jesse artfully avoids sitting next to him. He’s next to his new master anyway, both of them refraining from partaking. At least Genji has an excuse for not eating. Hanzo doesn’t. Jesse sniffs.

Genji doesn’t make a move to talk him, so Jesse takes a deep breath and decides to do it instead.

“So your brother’s a stickler for the rules, huh?” he asks quietly, as he goes to pass Genji a bowlful of mashed potatoes, which Genji passes down along to Lena. He winces. Why the hell did the first thing he asks about have to be _Hanzo_? And a stupid question too, asking Genji something he already knows.

Genji’s always been able to throw McCree off his game.

“...Yes,” comes the quiet murmur. “He has always been the same.” Genji had never mentioned Hanzo’s adherence to tradition, though McCree had known all about his demonhood. The demonblood runs strongest in old families, passed down from generation to generation through strict breeding protocols. Both Genji and Hanzo possess it.

The bowl of mash is passed down to Reinhardt. Genji sits back down on his chair, regarding Jesse with a carefully cool air.

Jesse supposes it’s the best he might hope for. Reluctantly, he puts the twenty questions he’s forming out of his mind and onto the backburner.

Thankfully, if he tries to forget the two nearly silent omnics sitting at the other end of the table, he can almost pretend he’s having a good time.

Almost.

Genji, sitting quietly and making conversation with the people around him, clearly grows bored as dinner goes on. He swipes Angela’s steak knife before she has a chance to use it, ends up idly fiddling with the blade, spinning it back and forth between his fingers.

McCree glances down the table just as Genji flips the sharp knife up into the air with a deadly casual flair, a quick little fluid motion of his right hand. He catches it easily again by the hilt without even looking at what he’s doing, head turned in quiet conversation with his master.

Mei gasps audibly and claps her hands together. Angela, who had been talking to Lúcio, suddenly notices the loss of her knife and exaggeratedly swipes it again from Genji’s grasp, tapping him briskly on the back of his hand with the flat side in warning. His visor flashes, and Jesse knows behind the mask he’s grinning.

McCree stops, forkful of pork halfway up to his mouth when another memory rises to the forefront of his mind; a memory of a locked room, two sets of quiet panting interspersed with laughter, a dimmed bedroom light, and the flash of a small, sharp _tantō._

Jesse feels the red heat rising up in his cheeks, and his jeans suddenly feel tighter than they did a few minutes ago. He shoves the food into his mouth, chews and swallows purposefully, even though the meat now tastes somewhat dry.

Genji’s always had a thing for blades.

Late into the evening, as Jesse is sitting and nursing his stomach, bemoaning the tightness around his belt, Winston brings out a bottle of (sadly) non-alcoholic wine. _For the children_ , he says solemnly, pointedly ignoring Hana’s cry of “I’m 19!”

“A toast,” he smiles, “to the last living member of the old Overwatch joining us at last, along with some much welcome new faces!”

Jesse raises his glass and clinks it against the others. He drinks deeply. Reinhardt disappears into the kitchen and emerges with a gigantic black forest cake for dessert. McCree had told him not to, that it wasn’t necessary to bake such an enormous thing for him—Reinhardt, as usual, hadn’t listen to one word of his pleading. His worn, scarred face beams and everyone exclaims in delight.  Jesse thinks perhaps it’s worth it just to see the smile on the old man’s face. Reinhardt passes him two plates and two forks. McCree stares down at them in mild surprise.

“I know I’m a growing boy,” he says, “but are you sure—”

“For Hanzo!” Reinhardt booms, nearly blowing out Jesse’s left eardrum. “The man is strange, he eats alone! But you must go and give him a slice of this, and introduce yourself!”

 _Oh we’ve already introduced ourselves_ , McCree thinks, but he doesn’t say the words out loud. If he wasn’t absolutely stuffed already, he would take Hanzo’s slice and eat it himself. As it stands however, he can only barely manage his own, so he reluctantly decides to save Hanzo’s for its intended owner, though he knows it won’t be touched. Let nobody say he isn’t the one to extend the olive branch, despite his own better judgment.

Hanzo, he finds out, has his quarters down by the east wing, as per Athena’s guidance. Jesse ambles leisurely towards it, notes with satisfaction that he still knows every inch of these walls by heart. The cake is carefully balanced in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other. A rather giddy and sugar overloaded Lena had pushed it at him, exclaiming that Hanzo needed some more alcohol in his life, to loosen him up a bit. She’d apparently forgotten that there was in fact no alcohol in it.

Jesse arrives and pauses outside the door. He knocks with his left elbow. Bone makes for a louder sound.

There’s a long moment where Jesse wonders if he is going to be standing outside Hanzo’s room with cake and wine all evening, like a bad romantic comedy. Then the door slides open, and the demon’s face peers out.

Hanzo sniffs loudly at Jesse’s face, then his gaze lowers towards the cake and the wine in his hands.

“What. Is that?”

“They’re for me, actually,” Jesse clarifies, pushing past an astonished Hanzo and striding into his bedroom, which is immaculately clean, spartan, and somewhat depressing to look at. “I know you won’t eat it.”

“Then why did you bring it? Why are _you_ here?”

“Because the others told me to. I kinda said this earlier, but you’re not doin’ a good job of this. I heard Mei say a few times, kinda loudly, that she wishes everyone could all _work together_ and join in _group events_ and be _civil_.”

“That woman does not like me anyway.”

“Well, you ain’t giving her much opportunity to change that, are you?”

Hanzo looks exasperated. He holds the door wide open, still dressed in his jeans and shirt, though his hair is loosened from the ponytail he had it in earlier. It now settles in a low braid across his right shoulder.

“Get out. These are my private quarters and you have no right to be here.”

Jesse obstinately sits down on top of the bed in the middle of the room and watches in amusement as Hanzo’s eye twitches at his legs messing up the covers, pulled and tucked into tight corners. He daintily rests the fork in the fingers of his bone arm, the arm that offends Hanzo the most, and cuts himself a neat forkful of cake, popping it into his mouth.

He’s still full from earlier, but the statement needs to be made.

“That’s disgusting,” Hanzo says.

“It’s delicious,” McCree replies through his mouthful. He sets down the glass of dessert wine on the floor beside the bed, shifts so that he’s facing the door.

Hanzo’s eyes flicker down to the glass. “Is that—”

McCree leans forward. “Oh, so you drink alcohol at least? Bit picky with your food, ain’t we?”

“Is that for you also?” Hanzo asks, voice carefully steady. This is interesting.

“Not really,” Jesse replies. “But I’ll warn you now, it don’t have much of an edge to it.”

The other demon shrugs, reaches down and swipes it. He drains the glass in one go, red staining the corners of his mouth. Like this, he looks less like one of their kind and more like their distant cousins lost to myth.

He frowns down at the empty glass. “What _is_ this?”

“Non-alcoholic,” Jesse clarifies. At Hanzo’s crestfallen expression, he grins. “Yeah, no one else was amused either. ‘Cept Winston.”

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

“Yeah, see,” Jesse cuts himself another piece of cake, pops it into his mouth, chews. He’s mostly doing it just for the expression on Hanzo’s face. “I had a thought here, Hanzo. While I was enjoying a most delicious pork chop. We’ve established already that you ain’t my biggest fan, and I don’t like you neither. Cool. Whatever. But like, that don’t change the fact at some point we’re gonna still need to work together. As teammates.”

The word hangs in the air between them, tense. A pit. And a pendulum.

Jesse continues chewing. Hanzo sighs eventually, shutting the door. He crosses his arms.

“What do you want, demon?” Hanzo asks wearily.

“To finish my cake,” McCree replies easily. “And then, perhaps, for you to put in some goddamn effort.”

“Effort.”

“Yeah, _effort_. Like I’m doing right now.”

Hanzo raises one eyebrow at the cake. “ _That_ is effort?”

“The effort I’m puttin’ in right now to not go for your jugular, despite the fact I really, _really_ want to.”

Hanzo laughs. It’s a short, dark sound. “So you may try and dress yourself as a human, but underneath you cannot hide your true nature.”

He doesn’t mention Genji. Jesse stops chewing. Does Hanzo… not know that he and Genji were once involved? Hanzo had already said that Genji had referred to the demon of Deadlock Gorge. But apparently nothing past that.

Somehow it stings a little. Genji didn’t mention their relationship at all, even if, in Jesse’s opinion, Hanzo didn’t really deserve to know anything of Genji’s personal affairs. Huh.

Jesse could use this though. This could be useful.

Hanzo quietly opens the door again. “Will you leave now?”

McCree gets to his feet, holding the plate and fork. He walks over to the door, swipes the empty wine glass from Hanzo’s grip with his skeletal hand, revels in the way Hanzo tries to avoid the touch of the cool bone against his own fingers.

“One last thing,” Jesse says, as he leaves the confines of Hanzo’s bedroom. “If you’ve got it into your head that I’m _weak_ , then I’m givin’ you a challenge. Tomorrow morning, meet me down by the practice range. I’ll show you what I can do.”

Jesse laughs internally. They both know Hanzo can’t and won’t refuse. Demons like him are a dime a dozen. They can never resist showing off.

While their kind do not strictly need to sleep, Jesse enjoys allowing his body some rest anyway, in the soft, quiet hours of the early morning. The quarters he has been provided are of a reasonable size, and the washrooms are only a short jaunt down the hallway. Furthermore, what he likes most is that each of the doors has a specialized locking system, coded by Athena. If he wants to be alone, he will be alone and undisturbed.

Jesse lets all of the glamours slip away from his tired body. His fangs emerge, the charm that hides his left arm as a metal prosthetic vanishes, and his red eyes gleam bright as a cat’s in the darkness. One of them is more pink than crimson nowadays, the red watered down by milky white, that injury he’d gotten over the years.

He stretches out on top of the covers. Low thread count. Thin pillow. Overwatch is working on a shoestring budget these days.

He doesn’t mind. It’s better at least than attempting to grab a few hours of shuteye in the middle of a stormcloud. _That_ always leaves him soaked to the bone and utterly miserable.

Hanzo will also still be awake, he knows. He certainly wouldn’t allow himself to slip into a ritual so… human.

So will Genji.

It’s been a long time since Jesse was in the company of other demons. He’d almost forgotten how rigid and uptight most of them were. Dealing with Hanzo had been exhausting. Thinking (or _not_ thinking, as the case was) about Genji had been even tougher. Memories of dark bedrooms and flashing knives creep at the edge of his consciousness.

Jesse scowls, rolls over and pulls out Hanzo’s arrow he saved from earlier. If nothing else, he can at least do some research in the hours he’s supposed to be dead to the world.

The arrow is fairly regular, from what he can see, though he’s the first to admit he doesn’t know a whole lot about archery. He runs his nose quickly down the shaft. Hanzo has left no scent on it, of course, but there’s the faintest hint of charcoal and brimstone near the arrowhead. Jesse pulls out his agent assigned datapad; taps in a few words, searches for some relevant information.

He’d guessed as much. Satisfied, Jesse places the arrow atop his bedside table and settles down for a short, quiet doze.

When the morning comes, Jesse and Hanzo’s challenge is rudely sidelined by a correspondence from Winston. The transmission is all authority and business, a sharp contrast to his demeanour last night. Hanzo had stopped the Talon infiltration (Jesse simmers with irritation at Winston giving Hanzo full credit for it), but the fact that they were nearby meant only one thing. Either they knew Overwatch had made its base here, or they had deep suspicions. Whichever of the two, it wasn’t good news.

A meeting is called. Jesse sighs reluctantly and dresses, leaving his revolver on his nightstand, heading down to the lab instead of the practice ranges. His early start gives him one advantage at least, as he manages to nab the most comfortable desk chair for himself, one that allows him to swivel around and around. He completes a spin just as the door opens to let in the next team member. He’s unsurprised to see it’s Hanzo, who must have also been gearing himself up for their competition. Jesse grins, waves at him mockingly with his skeletal hand. Hanzo stares, entirely unimpressed. His lips are pursed, brows furrowed. He’s a lot more irritated by this turn of events than Jesse is, that much is clear.

It takes only around ten minutes before everyone is assembled, the younger members unsuccessfully disguising yawns behind their hands. Genji and Zenyatta arrive together. Jesse shoves down the slow churning feeling of jealously that stirs in his belly. If Genji has a new lover these days, that’s… fine. That’s entirely his business.

Their affair concluded long ago.

Winston starts at eight o’clock sharp. He pulls out a datapad.

“Athena analyzed the assault over the night, and though the Talon agents were lightly armed, they were definitely a scouting party, which does not bode well for our setup here. My guess is that they were checking out what kind of new defenses we have put in place since their last skirmish. I want regular patrols immediately,” he growls, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a single finger. “Two to a patrol. Nobody ventures out alone. The rosters will be formulated according to skill set, as well as experience. Furthermore, we’re working on a skeleton budget here, so while we don’t have comm systems fully integrated into everybody’s mission gear yet, we _do_ have these.”

Mei brings forward a positively ancient crate of walkie-talkies. McCree leans forward on the swivel chair. Athena’s voice cuts in from above them.

“Though the technology is old,” she says, “I have been able to calibrate it with my systems. Anything you say through these will be available on the other end, as well as through my speakers.”

“Which means,” Winston says firmly. “No personal chats or gossip over these, please. Nobody wants that.”

Hana laughs behind her hand. Lúcio shoots her a grin.

“So,” begins Genji, from where he stands respectfully behind his mentor, “who are the patrol teams?”

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, McCree and Hanzo end up together for watch duty. The sharpshooter and the assassin. It’s a tested, winning combination.

Most of the time.

“I disapprove of this arrangement,” Hanzo says firmly, arms crossed. McCree can see the flashes of amber in his eyes where his glamour is slipping. He’s emotional. “Putting us together will only end badly.”

Winston sighs. “Is there a particular reason for this… refusal, Hanzo? Though it is true you are not officially a member of Overwatch, and we greatly value your aid, I think your assessment of your partnership is unduly harsh. From your combat history and your skill-set I think you two could work very well together.”

“We do not like each other. I think this arrangement will only harm the team.”

McCree sighs dramatically from the chair. Everyone else has long since left with their partners, going back to their day to day tasks, chatting amiably. Everyone but him, Winston, and Hanzo, who has been debating the issue for least twenty minutes now.

“You met each other only _yesterday_.”

“I make judgments quickly. And I am rarely wrong.”

Winston rubs his forehead with one hand. “You’re not an official agent, I can’t force you to do anything. I only hope you will reconsider.”

Hanzo scowls, emits a low pitched growl from deep inside his throat he knows only McCree will be able to hear.

McCree stands up from his chair. “Come on, Hanzo. It’s not like we have to spend every single hour of the day together. It’s only patrol. Besides, we can have our little competition later.”

“Competition?” Winston asks, looking from one man to the other. He sighs audibly. “Just don’t wreck anything beyond repair, please. The budget can’t take it.”

Hanzo sighs loudly, acquiesces. “If I must,” he says stiffly.

“Why Hanzo,” McCree says, “anyone would think you’re warming up to me. At any rate, I’d _love_ to see you on patrol. Your archery skills are incredible, I ain’t never seen anythin’ like it.” He’s only being partly sarcastic, layering on the sugar like he would on top of a bowl of summer fruits.

Hanzo turns and shoots him a withering look. For a few moments, McCree thinks it won’t work, and _then—_ he sees it. The flash of interest in Hanzo’s eyes. He laughs internally. Demons are _always_ weak to flattery. He would know. He’s one of them.

“For what it’s worth,” Winston continues, “since I’m feeling generous, if you agree, I’ll let you choose your patrol hours.”

“Night,” Hanzo says quickly, before McCree can interrupt. “We’ll take the night patrol.”

Winston raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I’ve never met anybody eager to take night patrols before.”

The night patrol. Figures. Perhaps Hanzo thinks he’s getting another one up on him, forcing him to lose his precious human sleeping hours.

“What about you, Jesse?” Winston asks him. He looks very much like he wants this conversation to be over.

Jesse stares at Hanzo over Winston’s broad shoulder. The demon smirks back at him, eyes flashing deep orange where he’s deliberately letting his glamour slip. The dragon on his arm slithers across his bicep.

McCree gives Winston a broad, fake smile. “‘Course. I don’t mind one bit.”

“Do you like doing this on purpose?” McCree asks later that night, as he and Hanzo stroll along one of the walkways high up on the watchpoint. They have both tersely agreed not to allow each other out of sight, due to the fact that they will not be able to sense each other if they slip out of each other’s field of vision. In this at least, Hanzo appears to be taking his duties as a mercenary seriously.

There is no answer. McCree sighs and gives up on the conversation. Hanzo’s bow, Storm Bow, as Genji had once informed him, is clutched tight in his fist. His eyes dart back and forth across the watchpoint, scanning the higher levels. McCree keeps his gaze on ground level. They walk in uneasy silence, Hanzo deliberately matching his footsteps to McCree’s, completing the rounds. Once they’re done, the demon inclines his head and disappears off over the rocks to scout further. McCree lets him go, lighting a cigar by the waterfront. He’s idly puffing away, admiring the reflection of the moon upon the still water, when he hears the soft sound of footsteps hitting the ground.

No scent, so he knows it’s Hanzo again.

“Anythin’?” Jesse asks.

“I saw nothing,” Hanzo replies, succinct, all business. “It seems tonight we are all clear.”

He vanishes back into the night air. McCree watches him go.

Three demons at the watchpoint. Two brothers. One a former lover, the other intent on hating his entire existence. This can only end in tears.


End file.
